


Circling, or Mr. Finch Watches Animal Planet

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bromance, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:26:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It just feels increasingly right to have Reese wander away, then come back to him, both in the field and within the confines of the library; to have Reese end up as close to him as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circling, or Mr. Finch Watches Animal Planet

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of meandering I couldn't fit into the longer fic I'm writing.

 

 

Reese is circling Finch.  Rather more literally than figuratively at the moment, Harold thinks wryly, looking up another number’s statistics on his computer while Reese makes a restless circuit of the room.  First Reese eyes the photos Finch just posted on the glass, then he arcs outward to the bookshelves, then winds back in (as he so often does) and hovers close to Finch, looking over his shoulder at Finch’s monitors. 

 

It’s a charged circle Finch has grown used to.  He tries not to admit to himself that perhaps he's even fond of it.  It just feels increasingly right to have Reese wander away, then come back to him, both in the field and within the confines of the library; to have Reese end up as close to him as possible.  He’s started to wonder if this applies only to their work.

 

 _Their_ work.  Finch has thought of it in those terms for some time now.

 

It hasn’t become any less dangerous, for all that.

 

Reese is as dedicated to working the numbers as Finch possibly could’ve hoped, when he’d hired him.  But Finch knows Reese’s spare time is still largely devoted to stalking him.  Observing him, trying to learn his habits and hoping to discover his origins, sniffing around his life for information like a wild animal tracing his scent down the wind. 

 

It isn’t a surprise.  Harold knew from the beginning that Reese would do this.  He knows the methods of infiltration and surveillance Reese learned in the CIA, even knows which ones he favors.  Though Reese was taught the long, slow, patient way to approach a target, to arrange seemingly chance meetings and engineer situations over time in order to gain a subject’s trust, Harold also knows that when push comes to shove, Reese is fond of quicker methods:  breaking and entering, and going through a target’s most private possessions in order to swiftly learn who they are.

 

Reese’s discovery of Grace was that sort of impatient rifling.  Finch also thinks it was perhaps inevitable.

 

Perhaps. 

 

 _Knowledge is power_.  An old adage that’s become particularly relevant in the Information Age.  Finch learned its truth when most children his age were still playing with dolls, and has acted on it ever since.  It’s always served him well, and he’d used it unhesitatingly on Reese.  Finch had needed a sort of leash on the very dangerous Mr. Reese when he’d first hired him; but he’d known Reese wouldn’t be content with it, and that his operative’s inevitable chafing under it would eventually lead him to discover Grace. 

 

He wonders if Reese realizes that he’d _allowed_ him to find her.  He could’ve used his knowledge, his money and power to prevent that, to keep Reese from ever setting eyes on Grace; but he hadn’t.

 

The thing is, he and Reese are very alike in some ways.  His tendency to use information as leverage is exactly what fueled Reese’s search for Finch’s past.  When they first started working together, Finch had held the reins; and Reese had instinctively sought information about him to level the power imbalance.  But Finch had calculated that, once discovered, Grace would only be tangential to him, not a primary source of interest in and of herself.  Finding her was just one more way for John to gain more intimate knowledge of Harold.  Finch has no doubt that John’s sharp eyes took in every detail of her apartment when he discovered her.  Everything there -- every photo, every stick of furniture, even the colors Grace used in her paintings -- must’ve been scrutinized.  Not to harm or even manipulate her, but in the hopes of finding traces of Harold in them:  of his tastes, his likes and dislikes.  Grace herself must’ve been assessed, observed, practically _catalogued_ , for precisely the same reason.

 

Finch had foreseen it and allowed it, believing he understood Reese’s motives.  Why try so hard to gather information about Finch, after all, if not to gain power over him?  Or at least to level the playing field.

 

Why indeed.

 

He'd calculated the risks if Reese located Grace, and judged them to be acceptably minimal. She wouldn't give him the information he sought about Finch's past. Finding her would merely show that Finch had a preference for gentle, intellectual women who loved books; and Reese could've guessed that much about him, without ever meeting her. He'd made sure that Grace herself was ignorant of his past, and any knowledge of The Machine.

 

And somehow, the closer Reese comes (not to having real knowledge about his most dangerous secrets, Finch cannot and _will not_ allow that) but to him, towards understanding Finch himself (and how many years has it been since anyone has really approached _that_?), Harold finds to his surprise that he isn’t threatened by it, nor does he fear being overpowered.  He’s hardly some helpless rabbit, after all.  He built a financial empire and created The Machine before he ever thought of hiring someone like John Reese.  He’s not a man to be taken lightly himself.  So rather than make him increasingly uneasy, Reese’s approach does exactly the opposite.

 

He’s gotten strangely _comfortable_ with it.  With Reese, with his dark, stoic presence, with his large yet sweet attack dog, with Reese’s constant teasing, his gifts of tea and the rough-silken purr of his soft, sly voice in his ear at all hours.  With their banter, sometimes prickly, sometimes oddly close to – well, what with anyone else, Finch might’ve called flirting.  With Reese, though, Finch thinks it’s more like the thrill one might experience getting up close to a lion, tiger or other large, sleek, deadly predator in a zoo, while still safely observing it from behind a Plexiglas window.  Though Finch would deny it to anyone else, the sensation of being slowly stalked, observed, _circled_ by someone as handsome, intelligent and dangerous as John Reese is -- exciting.

 

Sometimes Finch even imagines hot breath on the back of his neck.  Oddly, it never fails to thrill him, even as it frightens him a little.

 

But only a little. Finch knows his own limits; and Mr. Reese’s total lack of same.  So Finch will allow Reese only so close, and no closer.  He’d made up his mind about that at the start.  There would be no – no _shenanigans_ between them, he’d told himself firmly.  It would be unwise, to say the least.  Not that Reese will ever choose to cross _that_ particular boundary, Finch thinks wryly.  At least, not unless he hopes that sex could pry information out of him that John can’t get in any other way.  Though he loves finely tailored clothing and takes care with his appearance, Finch harbors no illusions about his own attractiveness.

 

He is, however, all too keenly aware of John Reese’s.

 

John Reese is undeniably beautiful, even rather exotic.  With his dark hair, blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones, the man embodies the phrase “tall, dark and handsome”.  Harold has noticed that, too.  He’s always had a highly developed aesthetic sense, and since his injury, he’s devoted his life to _watching_ ; so how could he not?  Even if he’d been blind, Harold’s certain that others’ reactions alone – the way women (and some men) develop suspicious hitches in their breathing, and their voices soften and grow flirtatious whenever John is around – would’ve spoken eloquently to him of Reese’s beauty. 

 

John’s looks have their benefits, of course.  Anytime someone needs charming or seducing, Reese is the perfect man for the job.  His admirers can be convenient, too.  Finch has already taken ruthless advantage of Leon Tao’s crush on Reese, by having him do the odd job for them for free.  Finch sniffs disdainfully to himself, thinking of that.  Tao’s willingness to do practically anything for them sans remuneration, despite his greed, just makes it so obvious.  The man might as well have the words “I Love John Reese” tattooed on his forehead, for all the world to see.  Harold makes a mental note never, never to mention that out loud to Mr. Tao, however, for fear that _he_ _might actually get one_.  Harold knows that Reese is already highly amused by Leon’s rather pathetic, ongoing attempts to gain his attention by repeatedly endangering himself.  He shudders to think how insufferably John would smirk if Leon had himself tattooed in such a fashion.

 

Still…  He’s put up with Mr. Tao because he’s rather good with computers (though not, of course, in Harold’s class), and no smart employer ever turns down free skilled labor.

 

Besides, though he rather detests the man, Finch still has some understanding of Mr. Tao’s plight.  He isn’t immune to John’s beauty, either.  He often has to struggle to maintain his distance from Reese, not to reveal his attraction or his frequent amusement at Reese’s jokes, or the odd way his heart often seems to contract when he watches John’s gentleness with Bear.  Not to mention the fact that he did, after a time, allow Reese to find Grace.  Not the most dangerous of his secrets, certainly, but the soft, bright one that’s dearest to his heart.  He’d never made the mistake of underestimating John Reese’s skills as an agent, or his persistence.  He’d always known that if Grace stayed in New York, John would eventually locate her.  Though Harold could’ve easily orchestrated events that would’ve forced her to move far away, and he’d often considered doing so, in the end, he hadn’t. 

 

At first, he’d told himself that he’d kept Grace in New York for selfish reasons.  Because he couldn’t bear losing his last link with her, his ability to actually _see_ her on occasion, even if it meant that John would eventually find her.  But now he realizes, it was more complicated than that.  He also hadn’t sent Grace away because he’d _trusted_ John with her.  Trusted that he would someday find Grace, yet never hurt or betray her to anyone. 

 

He still trusts in that, with a certainty he feels about few other things.

 

Strange, when Harold is so often bewildered by people; when he knows that the world is full of chaos and cruelty.  He’s always been repelled by that, saddened by the harm humans choose to inflict on others.  And it doesn’t stop there.  Nature is also savage.  In Animal Planet shows, Harold has seen small animals mesmerized by the approach of a large, deadly predator.  He’s watched them freeze, staring into the eyes of those predators as raptly as a besotted human would watch the approach of a lover.  He’s seen various criminals look at Mr. Reese the same way; as if they’re as surprised as Harold once was, that someone so lethal can also be so beautiful.  Actually, that apparent contradiction still catches Harold’s eye.  Sometimes when he’s hacked into traffic cameras to follow Reese’s progress in working a number, even when he knows Reese is prowling towards someone with violent intent, the sheer power of the man, the mingled grace and barely leashed ferocity in his stride keeps Harold glued to his monitors in awe.

 

Harold never forgets that Mr. Reese is a predator; and that as such, he lacks any respect for boundaries.  John Reese, in fact, is a man who enjoys smashing through them with extremely large trucks.  Finch is resigned to the fact that even finding Grace and learning what she means to him will not be enough, won’t get him close enough to Harold, to who he really _is_ , to satisfy Reese.  John will still try to find out more about him.  And he’ll use every means at his disposal to do it – including Finch’s own growing sense of comfort with him, of friendship. 

 

At least, Finch had once believed John would go that far. 

 

But then he’d been drugged with Ecstasy, and though Reese had him at his mercy, and Finch had been practically begging to talk to him, Reese had surprised him by refusing to do so.  Even now, the memory makes Harold cringe.  The drug had completely removed his inhibitions, to the point where all Reese would’ve had to do was ask, and he probably would’ve happily laid his head in Reese’s lap and burbled any or all of his secrets.  It was beyond embarrassing -- it could’ve been disastrous.  However, to Harold’s astonishment, Reese had prevented that.  He’d just given Finch water and blankets, advised him to get some sleep instead, and then quietly walked away. 

 

Harold still isn’t really sure what to think of that.  He’d been stunned, afterwards, when he’d reviewed the security footage of his revoltingly chatty behavior while under the influence of that pernicious drug, and realized that Reese had deliberately chosen not to take advantage of his vulnerability.  Incredibly, John hadn’t even asked him a single question. 

 

Harold had wondered if he should, perhaps, be ashamed of himself for automatically assuming that Reese would.  For assuming, when they’d first met, that Reese might be capable of using drugs on Finch himself, if he couldn’t learn about his background by other means.  After the Ecstasy incident, Finch felt rather embarrassed for holding such a low opinion of Mr. Reese.  It’d been a factor in his decision to trust him with Grace’s whereabouts; and again, Reese hadn’t disappointed him.  He’d never attempted to use that against Harold either, or even to see her again to gain more information about him.

 

Finch has always known that John has a soft spot, where women are concerned.  Some women, anyway.  After all, the only person he knows of that John ever truly loved was female; and Harold's seldom seen anything quite as terrifying as Reese in pursuit of any man who abuses women.  Still, Finch is a bit confused about Reese’s motives -- and about his limits.  His original assumption that Reese has none of the latter has already been proven wrong.  It seems that when it comes to Finch, Reese has very definite limits.  Reese will not drug or use drugs someone else has administered, to learn more about Finch.  He feels Reese prowling toward him steadily, drawing the circle of his pursuit in tighter and tighter around him; yet he seems unwilling to be ruthless while doing so, though he doesn’t hesitate to kneecap anyone who interferes with the numbers.

 

So what game is Reese really playing?  Is it all about power, as Finch had automatically assumed?  Or was it only that in the beginning?  And if it’s morphed into something else now, if Reese wants to know more about him for other reasons, what could they possibly be?  Surely no one would go to the lengths he’s gone to -- spending nearly all of his free time tracking down leads, forcing Det. Fusco to research the scant records that still exist on Finch, following faint traces to Grace’s door and interviewing her -- merely to satisfy his own curiosity?

 

What does John Reese really want from him?

 

He tells himself his lack of clarity about Reese’s motives and limits doesn’t really matter, because he’s never depended on Reese to maintain the proper distance between them.  He’s always counted on his own extremely strong sense of lines and boundaries, depended on his own innate caution and wariness (Nathan always called it paranoia) to keep him safe.  To keep their relationship on the proper footing of employer-employee, or perhaps a sort of business partnership, if one can call privately funded vigilantism that.

 

Lately, though, Finch has begun to wonder if his confidence that he had complete control when he hired Mr. Reese was a mistake.  An illusion.  Perhaps things have turned out very differently than he expected, because his original data set was faulty.  He’d thought he knew “absolutely everything” about John Reese -- and about himself.  He now realizes that despite the exhaustive amount of research he’d done on Reese before approaching him, that statement was inaccurate.

 

Though he’d studied his records going back to grammar school, John Reese was far more than the sum of all of the information Harold had collected on him.  Those records hadn’t contained John’s teasing, sly sense of humor.  Nothing in Reese’s military or CIA files had prepared him for the fact that a ruthless former CIA assassin could be so amusing, that Reese could often tease a smile even from someone like Finch, who’s so unused to humor or fondness anymore.  Though he’d known Reese had a conscience, that he wasn’t just an assassin, and had in fact hired him because of that, he’d never dreamed he’d show such empathy to the people they try to help.  That Reese would sometimes allow the numbers he saved to hug him, or that he'd sometimes try to comfort them when they were frightened or in despair.  He hadn’t guessed just how deeply decent John must’ve been, before the CIA had tried to turn him into a cold-blooded killer – or just how strongly that quality would manifest itself once again, once Reese was given a job where he could save people, rather than kill them. 

 

But Finch sees John’s goodness reflected from so many angles:  his fondness for the hapless Lionel Fusco, his defense of and affection for Joss Carter even after she’d almost gotten him killed, his adoption of a formerly abused military trained attack dog, and his tendency to spoil Bear rotten…  Those were all things John had chosen to do, not things Finch had asked of him.  In fact, Finch had advised him against his association with Detective Carter more than once, but John had refused to listen.  And Finch now knows that John was a more accurate judge of her character than he.  Despite the fact that she’d once betrayed Reese, Detective Carter has since become an invaluable aid in their work.

 

Now that it’s too late, Finch realizes that he didn’t really know John Reese at all when he hired him. 

 

Worse, he’d failed to anticipate certain things about himself.  Like the helpless rush of warmth he always feels (but never shows) when Mr. Reese brings him his favorite kind of tea, or offers him fresh doughnuts, or teases him through his earbud when he’s worried.  Lately, Reese has even taken to waking him gently when he falls asleep on his desk in the library, and administering a sort of slow, careful neck massage with his long, strong fingers, that greatly eases Finch’s pain and stiffness.  Though he’d jumped the first time Reese did it, Reese had merely held him carefully still and proceeded, despite his faint protests.  Now Harold secretly enjoys being awakened in such a fashion.  John never says much, just, “Breathe, Harold,” very softly.  “Just breathe, and let me.” 

 

As if it's something small, something simple, as if it isn’t Harold’s very breath he is _taking_ with that gesture, that kindness that isn’t small or simple at all.  What Harold feels then -- the hot, complex, exhilarating _rush_ of sheer longing and pleasure he experiences at Reese’s touch, his sense of wonder at his lethal operative’s unexpected capacity for kindness, mingled with his sharp curiosity at just what, exactly, John would do, how far he would go if Harold were, in fact, to just _let_ him do whatever he wished -- those are things he couldn’t have foreseen that he’d feel, and thus hadn’t factored into his calculations when he’d originally planned to hire Mr. Reese.

 

Harold thinks wryly that it’s lucky he _hadn’t_ anticipated any of those things, or the feelings they’d evoke in him; or he’d never have dared to hire John Reese at all.

 

Harold had read about, and been prepared to deal with Mr. Reese the deadly, cold, efficient ex-CIA operative.  But the Reese who rescues abused animals, whose tendency to collect strays (John calls them “assets”, but Finch knows better) has also led him to bring Detectives Carter and Fusco into their crusade to save the numbers…  The Reese who regularly brings him his favorite tea, who teases, massages and seems, against all odds, to actually _care_ for him – that Reese has been a revelation to Finch.  He knew Reese had a conscience; it was the reason he'd chosen him for his job.  He just hadn't expected so much _more_.

 

He’s still unsure what to do with that revelation, with all those facets of John Reese he’d never expected.

 

He didn’t believe them at first.  At least, not when Reese’s softer side was directed at him.  He’d told himself that Reese’s caring, protective behavior towards him – his warmth – was a ploy, with selfish motives.  That Reese was merely pretending to be kind to him, feigning affection in order to learn his secrets.  Reese was, after all, trained to do just that; and judging by what Harold read in his CIA file, Reese was quite good at it.  He also had quite a lot to gain by it, and Harold is keenly aware of how very much profit motivates most people.

 

But John Reese is not most people.  Harold quickly learned that despite the extreme dangers of his job, Reese didn’t seem to care how much he was paid.  Though Finch had compensated him handsomely from the start, and he could've afforded five star hotels, Reese had a baffling habit of staying in cheap, horrible dives instead.  (Harold wasn’t sure if that was a habit from Reese’s CIA days, or his more recently acquired habit of punishing himself, but in any case, he found it so exasperating that he finally put a stop to it by buying Reese an apartment.  And not just any apartment, but a luxurious one with a view.  Ha!  Take that, Mr. Reese.)  Reese doesn’t spend money on clothes (except when his are bloodied beyond hope of cleaning), liquor or fine food, either.  The credit cards he’d set up for John’s various cover identities mostly went unused, except for necessities like guns and ammunition. 

 

Finch had noted all that with keen interest, for the insights it gave him into Mr. Reese's character.  Money and the creature comforts or downright luxuries it could buy, clearly meant little to John Reese. Finding out about Finch's past, on the other hand, seemed to obsess him.

 

Then came Root; and he’d learned later, from Carter and Fusco, just how hard John had searched for him after she’d kidnapped him.  The lengths Reese had gone to, to find and rescue him.  There was no mistaking that.  There was no pretense, selfishness, profit or even obligation in it.  Harold himself hadn’t expected Reese to save him.  Though he’d secretly hoped he might, he’d _expected_ Reese to be his contingency, to carry on working the numbers if (no, when) something happened to him.

 

Instead, John had risked everything to save him.  Everything.  He’d even contacted the Machine, a bold, creative move which Harold had also never expected, in order to do so.  It had been Reese at his loyal, courageous, protective best; and once again, it had all been John’s idea.  And Harold’s been forced to admit, he can see no motive for it other than friendship; other than the very caring he’d been sure that John was only faking.  (He tries not to use the word love, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. He’s not good with people, and he doesn’t want to presume or make more mistakes regarding John.)

 

Still, Harold’s been forced, time and again, to rewrite his own ‘bad code’ – his misconceptions about John Reese, his behavior and his motives.  Reese just keeps surprising him.

 

Reese keeps getting closer and closer, too.  There’s no mistaking that, either.  And somehow, Harold keeps letting him.  First he somehow seemed to agree to eat doughnuts regularly (without ever actually giving verbal consent), then to occasional forays into the field, then to spotting for Reese with that alarmingly enormous sniper rifle; and lately, to the presence of Reese’s book-eating attack dog in the library -- God only knows where this seemingly endless spiral of previously unheard-of behavior on Harold’s part will all end. 

 

And though he’d never admit it to anyone, least of all Reese, it sometimes surprises Finch, how a part of him even _enjoys_ it. 

 

Harold remembers something he told his students about Pi, when he’d been undercover as a substitute teacher recently:  _Everything we ever say or do, all of the world’s infinite possibilities rest within this one simple circle._

What will happen when Mr. Reese finally shortens the radius of the increasingly tight circle he’s been making around Finch, and finds Harold at its center?

 

Harold doesn’t know.  He isn’t even sure what _he_ will do; though he knows, against his better judgment, what he _wants_ to do, whether it's unwise or not.  Will it be the worst mistake he’s ever made?  A disaster of epic proportions?  Or the best thing he’s done since he created The Machine? Only time, Harold and John himself will decide.

 

Harold thinks of something else he told his students that day:  _Now, what you **do** with that information – what it’s good for – well, that would be up to you._

He smiles a little to himself.  Though he doesn’t have a clue what will happen when Reese finally gets as close to him as he can – what either of them will do with that situation -- he’s all right with that bit of uncertainty.  He’s already let John learn about Grace, and trusted him not to betray her; and he hasn’t.  What’s more, Harold somehow knows that he never will.  So perhaps it’s only a matter of time before he puts more of himself in John Reese’s hands, as well.  There was one thing he'd been right about, back when all this started:  _I think that all you ever wanted to do was protect people_.

 

John Reese can be predatory; but Harold has discovered that there can be a rather large difference between learned behavior and a man’s true nature.  Harold’s found, to his surprise and delight, that Reese can be many other things, too.  Good things, even extraordinary things.  He’s learned to trust in Reese’s hands.  Lethal though they are, they can also be amazingly gentle.

 

Sometimes Harold imagines hot breath on the back of his neck, and shivers.  But sometimes, lately, he’s started to imagine tender kisses there, too.

 

It’s unwise, he tells himself, to theorize without sufficient data.  But Mr. Reese isn’t the only one who’s been collecting information about his vigilante partner lately; and Harold is more than content with what he’s learned so far.  He wonders if he will ever come to the end of his curiosity about the man.  He rather suspects not.  He _hopes_ not.

 

To Finch, Pi is more than an equation:  it’s a beautifully elegant mystery. 

 

Rather like John Reese. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
